


The Recruit

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Multi, SHIELD, background relationships only at this point, more characters and relationships added eventually, the early days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series I started on tumblr, but am deciding to put everything here in its proper place. Ongoing story with no clear update schedule, but each chapter can be read as its own snippet. Clint as a recruit for SHIELD and Phil coming to know him through a series of events. Anger and sharp edges all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Recruit part One

Phil was told by other leaders (except Fury, who’d spearheaded the recruitment effort on Barton, that Clint Barton, the wiry ex-carnival show wonder, would wash out of SHIELD after his first month. But one of Phil’s earliest memories of Clint was on the training parkour course three weeks after his arrival as a recruit, and he wasn’t sure ‘washout’ was the word he was looking for.

Barton stood nose-to-chin with the instructing agent, fists balled at his side and sweat running in rivulets down his sun-browned cheeks. His sandy hair was long and pulled back in a tiny, rather ridiculous-looking ponytail, and he was leaning forward, like he could press into the agent’s space and will his way to what he wanted.

“There shouldn’t be rules on a fucking parkour course,” he’d growled into the senior agent’s face. “It’s parkour. You find your own quickest route, and I did.”

The instructor leaned forward, pushing back into Barton’s space, and he was almost a whole head above him. “There’s a training route, recruit. It’s there so everyone has to practice certain obstacles to demonstrate proficiency.”

“It’s not the fastest route,” Barton protested. “You said, ‘get to the finish line first.’ That’s all you fucking said.”

“Watch your language, Barton,” the agent replied, and he stepped backward and crossed his arms. His thick muscles rippled under his black t-shirt and he narrowed steely grey eyes at Barton. “Your time doesn’t stand. You finished last.”

Phil didn’t know Clint Barton, but any idiot could read the lines of his body and know that being told he finished last wasn’t going to fly. Phil was reminded of a long, lean dog straining on a leash.

“Let me do it again. I’ll beat the leader’s time by three seconds at least,” Barton said. “Your rules weren’t clear.”

The trainer outright laughed. Phil liked him from what he knew - he was good at knocking arrogant assholes down a couple pegs without being humiliating, something Phil knew from his own military experience was a bit of an art form. He was fair, too, and Phil watched him run a hand through greying black hair as he stared down at his clip board.

“You think you can shave three seconds from a one twenty-three run?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Phil could hear the curiosity in his voice.

Barton nodded and stepped back.

“Following my rules?”

“Yes, sir,” Barton said.

“Line yourself up,” he said with a shrug. Protesting shouts from the recruits who just finished the course echoed behind him. Phil looked over to see sweaty, annoyed faces. Barton wasn’t making friends today, but it didn’t seem to faze him. He lined up on the starting line and rolled his shoulders under his own sweat-soaked grey t-shirt.

Now, the agent in charge asked if he was set, put his whistle in his mouth, and blew a loud, piercing shriek to get Barton off the line.

Everyone watched in rapt awe as he took the course. Phil had missed his earlier run, but someone nearby muttered, 'he just tore through this thing five minutes ago, jesus.’

He was grace in motion. He climbed a fence and leapt onto a rooftop, and when he made the jump through a window and was running again a half second later, Phil knew this guy was different. He’d read his file and knew his background on paper, but this was circus magic on the street.

He shaved the time by four seconds and everyone except the guy he beat was cheering as he crossed the finish line. The agent in charge crossed out his previous time and shook his head. “You beat the course record, too, Barton. Nice work.”

Barton nodded, picked his water bottle up where he’d left it, took a swig, and walked off toward the showers.

Phi watched him go, added a description of the incident to his own personal file for Barton, and made a note to keep an eye on this guy.


	2. Chapter 2

 

The next time Phil ran across Barton was eerily similar. This time Phil was heading down a hallway for a meeting when he heard shouting.

“Is this fucking elementary school? You can’t take points off my test for not showing my work. I got the right answer on my own. I _know_ how to do this!”

Phil recognized Barton’s voice from the volume. This time he was standing in the hall outside a classroom holding a paper test in his hand. He was wearing black cargo pants and another sleeveless grey t-shirt, but he’d gotten his hair cut. Now it was a military buzz cut, and he looked like a very angry Marine Phil had once known. The instructor he was yelling at was even taller than the last guy, and stood a good six inches over Barton. It didn’t seem to matter.

“The instructions in class were to use the processes we went over together when I was showing you how to do it. You did not show me that you followed the process.” His voice was even, but Phil could see his shoulders tense.

“Did I get the calculations right?” Barton asked.

“Yes, but -”

Barton’s voice was suddenly cold, and as Phil approached, he saw Barton’s eyes narrow. “Am I going to use these calculations on mission, sir?”

“Yes, that’s why we do this.”

“Am I going to need to show my calculations in the field or on a report?” Barton said quickly.

“No, but,”

“Then why the hell do I have to show them here? I’m not in fucking third grade and I’m not cheating. You give me the numbers and I’ll give you the god damned answers, and they’ll be right every time. How the hell is that not good enough?”

Phil watched as the instructor considered his answer carefully before he leaned forward . “It’s not good enough because we are an organization that also depends on its agents following instructions, and if you can’t do that, you need to find another organization that’ll deal with your attitude. I don’t have to, so get the hell out of here and take the grade I gave you.”

Phil saw Barton look to the side and mutter something, but he was too far away to catch it. Apparently the instructor was, too.

“What was that?” the guy asked gruffly.

“I said,” Barton replied, clearly working to keep his voice even, “Please let me do it again. I’ll show you the g-,” and he stopped, sucked in a sharp breath, and finished, “I’ll show you the work.”

But all instructors were not the same, so this one cocked his head at Barton and shook it. “No. Do it next time like I ask you to do. Then you can prove yourself.” He turned on his heel and left Barton standing alone in the hallway.

Phil watched as he leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and suddenly spun and slammed his fist against the wall so hard that Phil heard the crack. He stalked past Phil without even noticing him. 

Phil noted the incident in his notebook, and added the phrase, “stubborn to a fault, but incredibly intelligent” at the end. He knew the kinds of calculations they were discussing in the hallway, and if Barton could do those in his head, well. It needed to be noted.


	3. Part Three

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Phil heard the words but couldn’t see who was saying them until he heard the slam of a fist against a hard surface. He leaned around the corner to the small utility alcove and saw Barton crouched down on the floor, back to the corner. He had one hand pulling on his hair and one balled in a fist that had just hit the small utility panel on the floor. He was in the standard uniform of the recruits – a black SHIELD t-shirt and black cargo pants. 

Phil moved closer. His curiosity about Clint Barton hadn’t dissipated since the last time he’d run across him, and he’d since kept an alert on his computer for anytime the kid’s name was flagged for any reason. Phil knew he’d suffered a bout of the flu a week ago, had gotten a commendation in his strategy class last month, and had been written up twice for fighting with classmates since he’d started.  SHIELD had a pretty strict policy about recruits who fought more than three times during their 16-week probationary course. 

They got thrown out. 

“Barton, what’s going on?” he asked, and when Barton looked up sharply with flat-out fear in his eyes, Phil stepped back again. One cheek was split and blood was trickling from a small gash, and Phil noticed that the hand in his hair had blood on the knuckles. 

“Sir, nothing,” Barton replied, and he tried to get to his feet, but it didn’t work. He closed his eyes and sunk back to the ground. 

Sitting there, leaning against the alcove wall, Phil thought Barton looked like a teenager. He wasn’t, but he didn’t look twenty-three today; he looked seventeen, tops. Thinking back to Barton’s file, Phil figured he’d probably been bloodied and worn thin at seventeen, too. Phil knelt down and reached out for Barton’s knee and ignored his flinch. “Barton, what happened?”

Barton pulled in a deep breath and opened his eyes. Phil was startled at that intensity of his glare.

“I gotta get outta here,” he wheezed, and tried standing again. This time he made it, with his back against the wall. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Phil stated, and crossed his arms. He needed to know what happened. Bloodied recruits didn’t get to just walk away from a senior agent. Besides, Barton looked like he wouldn’t make it to his quarters without collapse. Phil was worried about him. 

Desperation flooded Barton’s face. “Sir, please. Just let me go and I won’t cause you any more trouble. I swear. I’ll keep my nose clean and my mouth shut till graduation. I promise.” 

“What happened here?” Phil asked, but then Barton’s file popped back into Phil’s head. Oh. “You were fighting again.” 

Barton closed his eyes again, and nodded. “Sanders was mouthing off to Mendez. Being a prick. He shoved Mendez and,” he swallowed. “Mendez went down hard, cracked his head on a desk. Knocked out. That’s why no one caught me and Sanders fighting. They’re getting Mendez to medical. He’s brilliant. If Sanders hurt him bad?” He looked imploringly at Phil and shook his head with a wince. 

“So you went after Sanders even though you already have two fights on your record. They did explain the three strike rule?” Phil watched Barton carefully. He didn’t want to report him again, but rules were in place for a reason. Phil was a senior agent, but only by a few months. He’d just been promoted to level five, and part of that was because he knew the rules, followed the rules, and was creative only within the rules. 

Barton sunk his chin to his chest. “They’re gonna kick me out. I just… I just see red when someone goes for someone else. Folks oughta leave everyone alone. I just… _he wouldn’t leave Mendez alone_.” 

Phil pulled in a sharp breath at the growl in Barton’s voice. He thought back to the record of the other fights and remembered that both times Barton was stepping in between two people. Phil looked at this rough, hot-tempered man in front of him and suddenly saw someone he’d want next to him in the field. Someone who fights out of loyalty and who has strategy to offer and a shot that no one else can make. Damn it. 

Phil was going to have to bend the rules or get this kid thrown out. 

Before he could change his mind, Phil blew out a breath and held a hand out to Barton. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall over on the way back to your quarters.”   
Barton’s eyes went wide and he stared at Phil’s hand. 

Phil nodded. “I’ll keep quiet about this if you’ll let me help you back. Otherwise I have to take you to medical and file a report. Neither of us want that.” Phil could hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth either. He was just as surprised as Barton. 

Barton took Phil’s hand and let him pull him down the hall. Phil moved his hand to Barton’s elbow and steadied him when he listed right. “You got a concussion, Barton?” 

Barton shook his head and righted himself. “I don’t think so, sir. I was up all night studying for a history exam. I think I’m just wiped out.” He paused. “I gotta study a little harder for history tests.”

“Why?” 

“Unconventional upbringing,” Barton replied, and Phil could hear the air quotes clear as day. “I’m not used to that kind of material,” Barton added as they walked down the hallway.

Phil thought about it and realized that in addition to whatever difficulties Barton was having here, traditional academic classes were probably a true struggle for someone who hadn’t been in a regular school since elementary. He nodded. “I was good at history. You’re welcome to stop by my office before tests and let me help you.” 

Barton stuttered his step at that, but kept his feet under him. “You’re a senior agent. Why would you help me study for a basic test?” After a breath, he added, “Why the fuck are you helping me like this anyway? I mean, I’m grateful as hell, sir, but I can’t figure you out. I know you’re a hot-shot around here, and that you play by the rules. This doesn’t make sense.” 

Phil was surprised that a recruit would know anything about him, much less have a clear-formed opinion about him. He took it with a grain of salt. “I think you have potential, Barton,” he finally replied. “I don’t want your temper to wreck it.” 

They reached Barton’s door, and he keyed it open quickly and Phil let go of his arm. 

Barton stepped inside and turned to Phil and stared at him like he was the oddest thing he’d ever seen. Phil knew that wasn’t true, so he just shrugged. “I can’t promise I’ll look the other way again, but if you come for help when you need it and keep pushing yourself, I’ll be a resource when you need it. My office is on the 10th floor.” 

Barton nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but uncertainty played across his face.

“I’ll hold you to it.” He backed away from the door and waved at the inside of Barton’s quarters. “Get some rest. Hopefully the test score you get will be worth the all-nighter.” Phil started to walk away. 

It was quiet, but he heard “Thank you, sir” and turned back. But Barton had shut the door with a sharp click, and Phil was alone in the hallway. He sighed and turned back toward the elevator to go back to his office. 

It was late, but he wanted to clear off his perpetually file-covered couch in case Barton came by to study any time soon.


	4. Part Four

 

WARNING: Food issues/hoarding

___________________________

Phil was surprised that it was Dr. Winter who called him about Barton. 

“Dr. Winter?” Phil asked, after she identified herself. “What’s wrong?”

There was a put-upon sigh. “I need someone to check on Barton and you’re it since his roommate told me he’d only said about ten words to Barton since training began. I had to go to his list.” 

Barton had taken Phil up on his offer of a couch when he felt like hitting someone a handful of times in the two months since Phil made it, and had started bringing Phil coffee when he decided to crash on it. They weren’t friendly or anything, and Phil didn’t think he knew much more about Barton beyond the fact that he was smart enough to take an out when it was offered, but Phil was glad to be on the top of Barton’s list, a list the senior officers made for each recruit. Barton would probably be irritated that such a list even exists, but hopefully he’d be okay with Phil being at the top of his.

“What’s the problem?” he asked as he closed the file he was working on.

“He’s in the gym. He was on the shooting range for three hours and now he’s been running for one. He also has only been to the mess hall once in the last 24 hours and that was yesterday morning.” There was a pause. “He may be fine, but this behavior is an odd pattern now, over the last couple Thursdays and Fridays. I’m concerned.” 

“You could order him in for an eval,” Phil said. “Isn’t that the usual protocol?” Phil liked Winter. She was efficient and thorough and funny, but she also knew when things might be leaving her limits and approaching Psych’s terrain. Phil sensed this was such a time.

Winter sighed again. Phil got the feeling she did that a lot about Barton. “Yes, but it’s Barton. I’ve learned quite quickly that if we can avoid a visit to me, he’s usually better off. I just thought you could assess the situation from the outside for me. Let me know what reasons he’s giving and you and I can decide whether to involve Psych.” 

Phil stood. “All right. I’ll check on him and call you back. Thank you for notifying me.” 

“Dr. Winter’s worried about you,” Phil stated as Barton took off the headphones he was wearing and slowed the treadmill down to a walking pace. Phil saw bags under his eyes, and he wondered if Barton had lost weight. He was not really in a position to lose weight, so Phil made a mental note to ask Winter about it.   
Barton frowned his death frown. (That’s what Jasper called it.)“Why? I’m fine.”   
Phil crossed his arms and ran his eyes down Barton’s frame. More muscled than before, for sure, maybe leaner. “You’ve been working out a lot the last couple days and not really checking into the mess hall much. She wanted me to tell you she thought maybe you should ease up a little and check your diet plan she set up for you on your training program.” 

Barton’s frown got even deeper, and he shut the treadmill off. He stood on the belt and looked away for a moment. “She checks with the mess hall?” 

From his tone, Phil knew suddenly that he’d made a misstep here. “She doesn’t check on you alone. She and her team check everyone’s meals a couple times a month, even mine. No one gets in trouble or anything, but she uses the data to design nutrition plans if needed.” He took a step backward because Barton’s eyes were narrowing dangerously and he didn’t want to look threatening. 

“She checks our workout routines?” Barton asked, and now he stepped down from the treadmill and Phil didn’t like the posture he saw. It was a little too ‘fight or flight’ for his tastes.

“Barton,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “She’s the head physician for a training program for people who are going to be put in unconventional circumstances on a regular basis. She needs to know that her agents will be in good health.”

“We have check-ins for our health,” Barton replied darkly. “And we have physical tests every two weeks. Which I pass.” 

Phil decided to play the administrator here, so he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Barton, we’re a government agency. We track some things. She’s not looking at specifics, just average calorie intake. She’s not watching your workout, just your times. She does it so she can help you plan.”

“I don’t need help. If I can’t pass your fucking tests, then give me a plan. I didn’t sign up so you jerks could watch my every move. Do you monitor my bathroom visits, too?” 

Phil decided to let that one go. Besides, Barton was deflecting through all of this. “Why are you working out so much and not eating?” 

If Barton’s frown could deepen, it did. “I’m eating.” 

“You keep enough food in your room to make several meals?” 

“Fuck you, I’m eating.” 

Phil didn’t answer. 

“Why the hell do you have check-ins if you’re gonna watch everything we do anyway? Huh?” Barton added as his stance steadied and he was practically on the way out the door. 

“Barton, look,” Phil said, and he stepped toward one of the benches nearby and sat. “Sit down.”

Barton looked at the bench, at Phil, and back at the door. He was still young enough to be telegraphing everything, Phil thought. They’d need to work on that. But he sat down next to Phil and leaned back with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. 

“We don’t watch every meal. Doctor Winter can access your items if she feels the need, and she does access them about once a week for trainees. She wants to make sure the new kids aren’t only eating pie. She doesn’t share the data, and she follows standard privacy protocol with it. She didn’t tell me you were eating Twinkies, just that she’s concerned that you’re not eating enough to match your workout routine, which is a health issue.” Phil relaxed his own body as he spoke, trying anything he could to calm Barton down.

He was met with silence. So he waited, and watched Barton stare at the floor and then close his eyes briefly before he said, “I have food in my room. Not – “ he swallowed and clenched his hands together. “Not Twinkies. Or pie. Meals.” 

It was Phil’s turn to frown. “You don’t have kitchen equipment in those rooms. Mini fridges are it, and you’re not allowed to order takeout until you’re a full agent and have your own living space.” They monitored the recruits’ meals for a reason, and takeout screwed with their data. 

Barton shrugged, and looked up at Phil. “Fruit. Cheeses. Granola bars. Leftover sandwiches.” 

Phil finally saw it for what it was. “Easy foods to save for later.”

Barton nodded.

“You save foods and then skip meals on Thursday and Friday. That’s why the pattern is there, because you’re stocking up over the week.” 

“I’m not used to - I carry stuff out of the cafeteria without even thinking about it, sir,” Barton said softly, sounding guilty. “I don’t want it to go bad, so I eat it at the end of the week.” 

Barton had been living on his own since he was seventeen, and Phil supposed the SHIELD cafeteria would seem like luxury. “How about I talk to Dr. Winter,” Phil said. “See if she can run your eval report as a weekly total rather than day-by-day? She’ll still get the items and the calories, just won’t see when you have them.” 

Barton thought for a moment and then looked at Phil with a small smile. “Or I could try to get over my fucking issue and stop stealing food.” 

Phil sighed. “You’re not stealing, Clint,” he said, and Barton looked up sharply at the use of his first name. Phil plowed on. This was sensitive territory and deserved to be treated as such. First names were warranted here. “You’re eating food we provide for you. There’s no limit for what you eat as long as it doesn’t interfere with your health or your job. That food is yours.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said.

Phil leaned a little so he brushed shoulders with Barton. “Maybe you should talk to someone about your issue that’s not stealing, though? We do have a department there for that, too.” 

Barton stood and grinned down at Phil, that rare, blinding grin that Jasper swore Phil was making up when he mentioned it to him. “Maybe. Maybe not, sir. That all you need right now?” 

Phil stood, too, and smiled back. “For now. I’m going to go pull your range records. Anything I need to worry about there?”

Barton headed for the locker room and waved. “If perfect scores every day since being recruited is a problem, then yeah. Otherwise, I’ll see you and your couch later, boss.” 

Phil wasn’t really his boss. Even when he made full agent they’d be along the lines of more senior and less senior, and that was fine with Phil. He really didn’t think anyone but Fury could be Clint Barton’s boss. But perfect range scores and food hoarding issues aside, Barton was turning out to be one of a kind, and Phil just wanted to be on his team.


End file.
